Page 197 of The Archer Brothers

CHAPTER2

CARA

Today is one of those days when I don’t want to work. Between the sun, the blue sky, and the sound of freedom flying overhead, the thought of opening my email or going into the field office to talk about sex trafficking and crimes doesn’t sit high on my list. To make matters worse, Nate only has a few more days until he returns to active duty, and who knows how that will go. We haven’t really talked about him retiring, but I know we’ve both thought about it. I don’t trust the Navy, not with everything going on, and I definitely don't trust the government even though I work for the FBI. The sheer number of cover-ups I come across blows my mind. Every politician is dirty, and everyone lies. The term passing the buck doesn’t even scratch the surface for these people. The truth could stare them down in an alley, and they’d still say it was someone else.

The San Diego branch of the FBI sits in front of what I suspect is supposed to be a grassy knoll, but it’s more like a dirt knoll if there is such a thing. The campus consists of three buildings, made mostly of glass. It makes you wonder why an entity like the FBI doesn’t covet privacy a bit more. Granted, security is tight, but it’s like the feds are screaming for the criminals to, “come and stare in our windows.”

I show the guard my badge. He checks the log and then raises the barrier to let me through. The San Diego branch focuses mostly on homeland security and anything significant in California, like fraud or corruption. Of course, the team here lends a hand whenever additional special agents are needed. I’m not sure why I’m here, to be honest. My division is special crimes, and while I go where I’m needed, my office is based out of Quantico.

After checking in at the front and having my weapon checked, I head to Special Agent in Charge Suzanna Trey’s office. We met once in passing when she was the assistant director in charge of training. A colleague introduced us, but we’ve never had a face-to-face until now.

When I get to her office, her assistant instructs me to go to the conference room where I find Ms. Trey and three other agents: Pamela Skinner, Hank Granger, and Jess Turner. After introductions, we sit down with cups of coffee and let the awkwardness settle in.

“I’m going to cut to the chase, Agent Hughes. I like you. I like the work that you’re doing, and I think you’re the perfect person to head up our new sex crimes unit for this office.”

I let her words sink in and replay them in my head. With anything as of late, I want to know why. It’s become a habit, almost like second nature, to ask. “Why am I the perfect candidate when there are so many more qualified agents in Quantico?”

The other agents in the room look uncomfortable with my question, but not Agent Trey. “Qualifications mean nothing if you’re not passionate about what you’re fighting for.” She moves a large file in front of her and places her hands on top. “This is your file on Senator Lawson,” she says. “And when I look through here, do you know what I see?”

“That I haven’t closed it,” I say.

“Exactly.”

“Do you want to know why?”

Trey shakes her head. “I already know. It’s not finished.” She pauses and takes a sip of her coffee. “The fact that the man is behind bars and his file is still open says something about how you view this case.”

I scoff. “My SAC thinks I’m stalling because I have a personal relationship with one of the victims.”

“I don’t care about that. What I care about is that you’re aware enough to know there are other issues with this case, that once it’s closed, it will be a mountain of paperwork to get it open again. I admire someone who isn’t afraid to go against the grain, and I want someone like you to head up the division. This is just one file of many that we have. It makes sense for San Diego to have their own task force instead of continually borrowing from Quantico.”

I take a drink of my coffee and lean forward, feeling a bit queasy. Honestly, the past couple of weeks I’ve felt off, and I’m not sure I haven’t picked up some bug from the cesspool of underground filth I’ve had to wade through in Vegas. Figuratively speaking, of course.

“The job isn’t without hardship, as you know. The job is hard. It takes a toll on a person. But it requires someone with guts and passion. I think that’s you.”

Leading a team would be a dream. Nate and I could put down some roots and not have to travel so much. “Would I be able to continue working on the Lawson case, even though my leads have gone cold?”

Trey pushes the file toward me. I open it even though I have the contents memorized. “I’d expect nothing less,” she says. I thumb through the pages and work to keep the contents of my stomach where they belong. He’s a sick, sick man.

“How big is the team?”

“Besides you, Granger, Skinner, and Turner. Each of them has major crimes experience, and Turner did a stint at BAU.”

I nod. “And an office?”

“Your own pit, with an analyst. We’re not cutting corners here. Trafficking is an issue, especially so close to the border. I want it stopped.”

We’re on the same page there. “When can I start?”

“Let’s take a trip downstairs. I’ll show you around.”

We all get up and head to the elevator to go down one floor. I would’ve preferred the stairs, but whatever. When the door opens, we step out, and there are two sets of glass doors, one to the right and the other to the left. We go to the one on the left. It’s dark inside but lights up as soon as Trey unlocks the door and flips the switch.

The pit is like every other one I’ve been in—desks in the center of the room with whiteboards covering every inch of the wall space. Trey shows me where my office would be. I step in and pretend to check out the view and look around. Most offices are the same with the desk facing two chairs, a working table that seats four, large windows overlooking either the parking lot or the knoll, and a credenza behind the desk. The shelves are blank, as are the walls, giving me ample space to display my degrees, accommodations, and books.

“What do you think?” Trey stands at the door and motions for me to look at the nameplate. Hughes, in etched letters, appears there.

I glance at the other agents. All three appear to wait for me to agree or back out. “I think we have a lot of work to do.”

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